Montana Sky

on.”
    “Uh-uh. Pull over.” And she flicked the front hook ofher bra so that her breasts spilled out like glory.
    “It’s a public road. It’s broad daylight.”
    She reached over, tugged down his zipper, and found him hard and ready. “And your point is?”
    “You’re out of your mind. Anybody could come along and . . . Christ Jesus, Tess,” he managed as she slid her head under his arm and clamped her mouth on him. “I’ll kill us.”
    “Pull over,” she repeated, but the teasing note had fled. Now there was hoarse and husky need as she tore open his shirt. “Oh, God, I want you inside me. All the way in. Hard, fast. Now.”
    The rig rocked, the wheels spun, but he managed to get to the shoulder of the road without flipping them over. He jerked on the brake, fought himself free of the seat belt. In one rough move he had her on her back, all but folded on the seat while he struggled with her jeans.
    “We’ll be arrested,” he panted.
    “I’ll risk it. Hurry.”
    “We—oh, God.” There was nothing under the denim but her. “You should have frozen.” Even as he said it he was dragging her hips free. “Why aren’t you wearing long johns?”
    “I must be psychic.” Right now she was simply desperate, and she arched up. Her moan was deep and throaty and melded with his as he rammed himself into her.
    Then there were only gasps and groans and pants. The windows steamed, the seat squeaked, and they came almost in unison in less than a dozen thrusts.
    “Good God.” He would have collapsed on her if there’d been room. “I must be crazy.”
    She opened her eyes, then started to laugh. Her ribs were aching before she could control it. “Nate, the respected attorney and salt of the earth, how the hell are you going to explain my bootprints on the ceiling of your truck?”
    He looked up, studied them, and sighed. “Pretty much the same way I’m going to explain the fact that I no longer have a single button on this shirt.”
    “I’ll buy you a new one.” She sat up, managed to locate her bra and snap it on. Giving her hair a quick shake, she boosted her hips to get her sweater. “Let’s go shopping.”

SIXTEEN
    “Y OU GOT A MINUTE , WILL ?”
    Willa looked up from the papers spread over the desk, pulled herself out of the figures. Christ, grass seed was dear, but if they were going to rebroadcast she wanted to start now. Birth and wean weights circled in her head as she closed a ledger.
    “Sorry. Sure, Ham. Problem?”
    “Not exactly.”
    He held his hat in his hands and eased himself into a chair. The winter had been hard on his bones. Age was hard on the bones, he corrected, and he was starting to feel the years more with every passing wind.
    “I went down to the feedlot like you wanted. Looks good. Ran into Beau Radley from over High Springs Ranch?”
    “Yes, I remember Beau.” She rose to put another log on the fire. She knew Ham’s bones as well as he did. “Lord, Ham, he must be eighty.”
    “Eighty-three this spring, so he tells me. When you can get a word in.” Ham set his hat on his lap, tapped his fingers on the arms of the chair.
    It was odd sitting there, where he’d sat so many times. Seeing Willa behind the desk, with coffee at her elbow, instead of the old man with a glass of whiskey in his hand.
    Jumping up Jesus, that man could drink.
    Willa struggled with impatience. Ham took his time, and everyone else’s, when he had a point to make. She often thought conversations with him were like watching a glacier move. Generations were born and died before you got to the end of it.
    “Beau Radley, Ham?”
    “Uh-huh. You know his young’un moved on down to Scottsdale, Arizona. Must be twenty, twenty-five years ago. That’d be Beau Junior.”
    Who would be, by Willa’s estimation, about sixty. “And?”
    “Well, Beau’s missus, that’s Heddy Radley. She makes those watermelon pickles that always take first prize at the county fair? Seems she’s got the arthritis pretty bad.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that.” If they got a break in the weather early, Willa thought as her mind wandered, she would see if Lily wanted to start a kitchen garden. A real one.
    “Winter’s been hard,” Ham commented. “Don’t seem to be letting up, and it’s coming to calf-pulling time.”
    “I know. I’m thinking about adding another pole barn.”
    “Might be an idea,” Ham said noncommittally, then took out his tobacco and began to meticulously roll a cigarette.